


Allure

by kamikaze43v3r



Series: Cravings [6]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Blood, Credence and a knife, Graves is scared but turned on, M/M, Oneshot, some graphic mentions of violence and gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 17:18:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10470129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamikaze43v3r/pseuds/kamikaze43v3r
Summary: The pale boy is hunched and curled up in a dark corner, hidden by shadows. His hands are shaking, long spindly fingers wrapped around the bloodied kitchen knife. The knife reflects the light and one could mistake the whole visage as a shadowy creature with glistening fangs.He is terrifying, and he is beautiful.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this isn't really expanded. I got lazy. But I love the idea of Credence with a knife. And Graves being turned on by danger and fear.

The pale boy is hunched and curled up in a dark corner, hidden by shadows. The large oversized sweater is dark in both colour and the blood that it's drenched in, and it looks as if the darkness of the shadows has him in its grip. The boy looks fragile, ethereal, with his pale skin and lost, dazed eyes. Flecks of blood are splattered across his cheeks, but there is a large amount of blood around his muzzle, like a creature who's just finished feasting on a fresh carcass. Graves can't tell if the blood belongs to him or his victims. His eyes are wide and wild and bright and his pupils dilated as they dart around the room, staring at nothing and glossing over Graves as if he isn’t there. His hands are shaking, long spindly fingers curled around the bloodied kitchen knife, followed by the trembling of his shoulders and shivering of his entire body, wrecked in heavy breaths and shuddering sobs.

Credence is still high on adrenaline. He barely remembers what he's done but he's running on fear and primal instinct and the ugly, coagulated anger that's been pooling within his core and rotting into sludge for so long. He's nauseous, choking on the stench of iron and he can taste the bile that's threatening to spill from his throat. His vision is blurred and he can't process anything more than his surroundings and the black figure before him. It's someone he's seen before but he can't register it, his entire senses broken and overwhelmed, still shaken by what he's done.

The man -  _ “You may call me Mr. Graves, dear boy” _ \- slowly approaches him. Credence holds the knife up with shaky hands in a weak attempt to protect himself. He doesn't know what this man wants, he might want to hurt him, like everyone else seems to enjoy doing. But he's had enough. He will kill anyone who tries to hurt him again. Another broken sob escapes him as he jumps forward and viciously slashes at the man who manages to just barely back away. Credence smells the sting of fresh iron and he knows he's cut him. Good. He should stay away. Credence retreats back into the corner, eyes trained on the man once more, daring him to come close to him again.

But this man -  _ “It’s Credence, Mr. Graves, sir”  _ \- is foolish. He approaches Credence, determined despite the slight falter in his step. His hand is bleeding from Credence's knife yet he's still coming. Credence stares at him, handsome and hale, with his jacket and his coat looking impeccable and clean in this dirty pit where Credence was raised, not covered in blood of the people who's hurt him. He can smell fear from Mr. Graves; he's familiar with it himself to recognise it. Yet  _ still _ , the man keeps moving towards him. 

“Credence,” Graves speaks slow and quiet, not wanting to scare the boy. His hand stings from the knife, and it's not a shallow cut. It's bleeding profusely and he knows he won't be able to really use that hand for awhile. But he's too focused on this boy, this wild creature of the shadows who's been through so much. Who looks one with the darkness and holds his knife like it's his life line. The knife reflects the light and one could mistake the whole visage as a shadowy creature with glistening fangs.

He is terrifying, and he is beautiful.

Graves feels like he's walking towards death; Credence has no skill with that blade but he is running on instinct and he knows how to hurt with it and Graves is experienced enough to know that approaching a cornered, frightened creature can lead to a horrible, bloody death. The proof is around him. The bodies of the Barebone matriarch, a young lady and three other followers of their cult lay scattered, mangled and cut up from just a kitchen knife in the hands of a lone young man. The large hall lies in ruin, with shattered glass, scattered chairs and other broken furniture and it almost seems impossible that the one responsible for all the death and destruction is this thin, frail looking boy. 

Graves  _ wants _ , and that keeps him stepping forward.

“Credence,” he repeats, still as gently as possible. The young man doesn't answer or move, just staring at him with eyes that appear almost all white from the light, glassy and inhuman. They continue to stare each other down, and despite the knife, Graves continues to approach. Eventually the adrenaline seems to have run out, and the young man's gaze has glossed over to resignation and exhaustion as Graves gets close enough to touch him. 

Carefully, Graves slips his arms around Credence into a light embrace, loose enough so that the boy can move away if he so chooses, but Credence doesn't even respond. Tentatively, Graves tightens his hold, placing a hand over the young man's nape, stroking along the shaved hairline. He hushes and soothes the boy, feeling something dark and possessive bubble in his gut, taking claim of this broken creature with his touch. He hears Credence whine and feels the sharp, jerky shake of another sob before the boy leans into his embrace, tucking his face in Graves’ neck.

The man's claim on this boy is solidified. He smiles. 

Credence sobs and closes his eyes, drowning in the scent of musk and sweat and cologne and something that he thinks is what  _ home  _ should smell like and it's blocked out the pungence of blood. He feels safe, protected, and it makes Credence tremble and whine and break down from how free it feels, to be in this man's arms. There seems to be an unspoken promise, a belonging in his grip that Credence has desired for so long. 

The sludge in his gut grows warm. Something else takes him, and the foreign sensation reminds him of his protectiveness for his younger sister, Modesty. Where she is now, he doesn’t know, but he’s too tired to even care, as selfish as it is, and he wants to disappear into this man’s warmth. He’s never felt safer and it leaves him weeping, wanting and clinging. Credence tells himself he’d die for this man, who’d given him this relief. While it hadn’t been often, all those visits and quiet conversations and soft gentle words whenever he sees the man always left him lighter and happier. He has to repay the man somehow, Credence thinks desperately. He’ll die for him, protect him with every inch of his being, even if it's with his knife or his claws. 

Graves hushes him and strokes the back of his neck, holding him protectively, possessively and he's still a little terrified of this boy who's covered in blood and is a little wild eyed, but he's never seen a more beautiful sight.

 

* * *

 

Graves returns to his manor with a tired sigh. He dumps his coat at the hanger and waves away the servant. He undresses quickly, desiring nothing more than the comfort of his bed and the warmth of a very familiar body.

He’s had a long day of meetings and covering up losses of a botched job, threatening some smaller families and paperwork he’d rather do himself than have others do for him. He’s been told he suited a government official more than a crime boss, but those who usually suggest so have found themselves with a hole in the head and at the bottom of the bay.

A particular meeting with the Shaw family had left him seething, and he’d thought of sending a message to them, but he’s thought better of it. They are small fry, but proud and have some connections. Their arrogance would only cost them, and Graves knows who to send but that takes too many resources to waste on insignificant ants like the Shaws.

Once he’s stripped down to his under clothes, he slips into the large bed in his private chambers, sliding right behind the sleeping form of a younger man. His arms wrap around the man’s waist, and he tucks his nose to the other’s nape - but stops short when he feels the cold steel of a blade at his neck.

“Credence,” Graves murmurs breathlessly. The young man blinks sleepily at him, clearing his vision before he withdraws his hand.

“You’re back,” Credence says, startled. “S-sorry, sir.” The switchblade he’d especially made for Credence is quickly put away, under his pillow, but Graves can still see his boy shuddering. He’s probably had a nightmare again. He knows what he’s in for when he took Credence in. The boy is damaged, and that darkness in him is more than just broken pieces of a young boy and stewed anger. There’s a monster, a beast in there, that lusts for blood and possesses a twisted morality, but it’s what’s pulled him to the boy, made him absolutely majestic in his eyes.

“It’s alright my boy,” Credence shushes him and slowly pulls him close again. Credence relaxes and rests against him. He can still smell iron on the boy, no matter how many times he knows Credence has scrubbed himself clean. It’s become part of his natural scent, a muted whiff of danger and dark memories.

“Are you alright, Mr. Graves?” he hears Credence ask meekly. “You… feel tense.”

“It’s,” Graves sighs, running his hands through his hair. “It’s just Shaw. The Junior’s been too full of himself and making trouble. Nothing to worry about, Credence.”

“Is he making you upset?” Credence asks again, looking concerned. 

A sense of fondness overwhelms Graves, and he doesn’t hesitate to kiss him, taking his lips hungry and passionate, as if wanting to devour the boy. They part for breath, with Credence’s eyes glazed and dark, leaving Graves smirking smugly.

“I’m fine, sweet boy,” he replies, stroking the boy’s cheek. “Having you here is enough.” That makes the younger man smile, bright and soothing and Graves can’t believe this boy is  _ his _ . His eyes are an intoxicating brandy as they stare up at him, but if he blinks, they burn an inhuman red. A captivating being, belonging to Graves and Graves only. He would burn the world for this magnificent creature.

“Thank you Mr. Graves,” the boy murmurs, as he does every night when they go to sleep. He pets the boy to slumber, dozing off to the sound of Credence’s even breaths and the feel of his soft raven black hair under his fingers.

 

* * *

 

Blood.

So much blood.

The stench of it is pungent and fill his nose the moment he steps into the building. It claws at his throat and threatens him with nausea, but Graves is used to it. He’s seen worse.

Graves walks through the scene of the massacre at the Shaw manor. His lip curls in disgust as he steps into puddles of blood, too much of it to be absorbed by the carpet. He walks by the array of bodies - guards, Graves suspects - and moves to the main office. Both Henry Shaw Junior and Senior lay dead on the ground. Henry Shaw Jr., especially, is mutilated beyond recognition, his face stabbed until all that’s left is minced meat. There is only evidence of pure hate and fury, and he looks like he’s been mauled by a vicious creature with claws than with a knife.

Nobody knows who is responsible for this. The Shaw’s guards had had their throats slit too. No trace, no witnesses. They were killed in the cover of the night, as if by an agent of shadows.

Something burns hot in his gut. Graves schools his expression, not wanting to give anything away. He tells his men to have this cleaned up and inform the other families. The Shaw family, or whatever’s left of them, will be taken over by the Graves group.

No one will speak a word of this.

He goes for another meeting, and then another, but the whole scene from the Shaw manor remains stuck in his head. The scent of iron is still fresh in his nose, following every where he goes. His men are nervous around him, more so than usual. They have an idea who was responsible for the massacre,  _ the wild card _ , they like to call him, but they still have no idea who exactly is he.

Graves is a very closely guarded man and an even more private person. Even his closest associates know little of his life at home, and barely knows more of his young lover. Besides, Credence looks far too frail and unassuming to warrant much attention, and Graves prefers it that way. He doesn’t enjoy any other eyes on his boy anyway.

When he finally returns home that evening, he seeks out his beloved. He’s reminded of the moment when he first took Credence in, when the boy was huddled in a corner, cradling a kitchen knife in his shaky, bloodied hands, surrounded by bodies and looked like an avatar of death and destruction. He is anxious to see his boy again.

He finds Credence in their bedroom, asleep and comfortable under the covers. His hands are clean. There are no traces of blood on him, not even dried ones under his nails. Graves is almost disappointed, but he stamps it down. He goes over to Credence, mindful of any sudden movements, approaching slow, knowing the boy always has a knife on him, no matter where he goes and he’d use it anytime he wishes, in sleep or in consciousness. 

“Credence,” he calls, waking the boy as gently as he can, feeling his heart beat faster as the younger man blinks his eyes open, the colour of them always so enrapturing, pulling him in. “Tell me, did you do anything recently?”

Graves cups his boy’s face, tracing those sinfully red lips with his thumb as Credence leans to his touch. His expression doesn’t change, just a slight crease between his brows, a look of confusion rather than guilt.

“I just read some books while you were away…?”

“Nothing else?” Graves presses. Credence blinks, and the deep brown of his eyes flash blood red.

“I am not lying, Mr. Graves,” Credence replies. Despite making no other movement, Graves thinks he almost feels the cold steel of the boy’s knife against his throat once again. The thought of it makes him smile.

“Of course,” Graves agrees. Credence blinks again, and the colour returns to the rich soft brown, assuming his muted, quiet role. How sneaky… how -  _ terrifying _ , Graves can’t help but think.  _ Beautiful _ . He leans in for a kiss, unable to resist the danger and darkness that this boy is, and from the moment their lips meet Graves tastes blood.

This young man is perfect. His miracle.  _ His _ . 

 

* * *

  

The Graves family is a name that echoes and strikes terror within the American criminal underworld. Percival Graves is the leading light who’s pierced through the darkness of their world. His group shines bright enough in comparison to the others, that it is not seen as arrogant for their members to call themselves  _ Aurors _ .

They say there is a wild card amongst them, a dark, black shadow hiding within the light.

Percival Graves is a cautious, powerful man; he knows to keep his cards close, but his wild card even closer. No one knows who this wild card is, and all they know of them is the destruction that’s left behind. Trails of blood and cut up bodies, mutilation and frenzied attacks, a headache for the clean up crew, but effective nonetheless, leaving stories of fear, disgust, and apprehension.

There is a young man who is rarely ever seen, but many have heard of him. The young lover of Percival Graves, a beau who appears more like a phantom than a person. Not many has seen his face, just a glimpse of a gangly, lanky young man sticking close to the crime boss before disappearing altogether after sharing a chaste kiss on the lips.


End file.
